Harry's hips bumping up against John makes the man laugh. He's so glad for it, seeing Harry like this. The man needs touch, that much is obvious, and John is glad to give it to him in return for such vibrant reactions. He could tie Harry to the bed and spend a week cataloging each flex of his muscles, each hoarse sound, and exactly how to pull each one out of him. The thought of keeping Harry in this bed like a prized thing is so tempting. Unrealistic, but still appealing. He'll box that up, keep it for a lonely night.
When Harry sits up to watch, John lifts up himself, kneeling in against Harry until they're flush and then just tipping himself forward. Their hips cup together, the curve of Harry's ass on John's legs, lifting him just slightly and pressing him down onto his shoulders. Holding himself up with one hand, John runs a finger over Harry's lip, smoothing the teeth marks there. "I'm sorry, were you getting lonely up here?" He asks with rich humor, staring at Harry with a smile in his eyes. "Can't have that."
The bag is barely in his reach, and grabbing it rocks his hips against Harry's. It's impossible not to feel every tiny movement in extravagant detail, from the thrum of Harry's pulse to the way his cock twitches. Maybe John notices and takes his time settling in, shifting around. Hello there.
A cool raspberry is dragged over Harry's bitten lower lip, meant to soothe and to entice. The red it leaves is painted imperfectly, dripping down the corner of Harry's mouth, but John is quick to clean up his mess; a quick swipe of his tongue collects the stray drops before he sucks the juice off Harry's mouth.
He pops the berry into his mouth, carefully watching for Harry's reaction.
If he needs physical contact, he asks for it in a way that includes the slow arch of his body into John's hands and the way his eyebrows climb towards his hairline. John shifts against him, molding him into a position he swears he's never contemplated before. Harry goes with it; his legs bending so that he can set his heels against the edge of the bed and lift his hips, just a little, so that John can fit against him.
Afterwards, he has to unwind. Inch by gradual inch, he loosens the muscles in his legs and lets them each down in turn. One, then the other; tucking them back alongside John's hips. He does so with purpose, concentrating on proving to the part of him that must have decided you've got traction now get the fuck out of this that he was okay. He doesn't liquefy when John's finger makes a pass over his mouth, but it does encourage him to settle and brings him right back down.
"Don't flatter yourself," Harry laughs. He'd like to reciprocate (he'd like to touch, to flatten the palm of his hand against John's stomach when he moves just to feel his muscle shift under skin, or get a hand on his back and feel him flex, or grab his biceps when he leans over and cages him with his body), but if he lets go of the bed... well, he doesn't know which direction he'll go. So he clings to the sheets and digs his fingers into the bed and watches. Harry watches until John paints his mouth, cleans him up and then taunts him with the berry.
With the brief warmth and the stray thoughts of kissing John Marcone senseless, and that's all that it takes, because his legs tighten around the man's waist so help him fold in half and lunge for John's mouth. This time he's sweet with his kisses, and maybe it's because the prize is as much a tender berry as it is the chance to tease another laugh, another noise for fucks sake, from John.
If it's sound Harry is seeking, then John provides it: a warm chuckle when Harry proves he's got elastic for bones, arching up. John urges him back down, digging his fingers into Harry's shoulders with a questioning hum, unsure if holding his arms up for so long is taking its toll. It's when Harry tries to steal the raspberry from his mouth that John makes a low, purring, "Mmmnh," chasing Harry's tongue and kissing back hard enough to press the wizard's head into the bed.
John eases up, laying separate, soft kisses against Harry's mouth. "You are so perfect like this." His hand slides down Harry's leg, where its wrapped around John's waist. "Just like this," he murmurs like a secret. His hand curls under Harry's back, holding him up just a bit further.
"I could do this all night," he says into Harry's jaw, worrying at the rough curve of it. "Hand feed you and keep you like this," and here he uses that leverage of his hand at Harry's back and crushing them together for a beat before letting go. It's reluctantly that their skin pushes together, a lingering stickiness that John's tongue couldn't entirely clean away.
He lifts his head, looking down at Harry, at the long stretch of his arms. Around John's mouth is red, smeared from when Harry crushed their lips together. "Or you can ask me for whatever you'd like."
The raspberry tastes good. Iit's a goddamn raspberry, and they're practically his favorite. Oh, and by the way - apparently, so does the man he stole it from, because even after Harry's taken that small prize, he takes the rest of the time to leisurely (oh god nevermind there's a little frenzy in there) explore John Marcone's mouth and what it's like to kiss him. He skims the edges of his teeth over John's tongue, barely threatening because he knows by now that his oral fixation is obvious. He talks too much, too fast and bites and kisses like he's drowning and the pair of them need to fucking buddy breathe.
Maybe he just can't get enough of the thought that he's being kissed because someone wants to goddamn kiss him, someone lured him into it because they wanted his mouth just as much as he figured they wanted his which is freaking fantastic, the less he thinks about it and the more he just reacts to John's body and John's voice and his stupid, gorgeous eyes. Wow, getting pretty fixated there, Dresden. Either reign it in or embarrass yourself by writing some goddamn poetry most likely titled Ode To The Color of John Marcone's Eyes. (It's just that he's so used to fighting tooth and nail when he's under someone, because when someone asks you about fighting and so what do you do when someone's got you on your back the answer is a resounding chorus of don't let them get you on your fucking back!) But there he is.
Perfect. There's a word he's never heard before. Especially not when it's attached to his gangly limbs and torn-up face and all his goddamn issues and inhibitions. Harry's face contorts for a moment, real confused and full of all sorts of questions, like for starters: what the hell are you smoking and are the side effects permanent because i could totally use some. He chooses to bypass the words, but the questions are there in the corners of his eyes and in the set of his teeth and the way he turns his head away just a little more because okay, maybe his scrawny bicep will suddenly explain everything. It doesn't. He's not surprised.
"I want..." He doesn't know. He's got his hands so twisted in the sheets he's sure he's practically dragged the pillows into reach, his fingers are hidden in the fabric, the muscles in his neck stand out when a wave of heat rushes through him from toe to face (which is a fabulous shade of red that totally indicates he's as flustered as he is aroused) and he even makes a noise that sounds sort of like a strangled nngh when John's hot and hard against him for a beat. When John invites him to ask for what he wants. Fucking invites him to admit things to him, and all of Harry's words choke him.
He wants a lot of things. He doesn't know if he's able to say them all, because he's yet to untangle them - this one from that one and this one from them all. For a moment, he stills under John, looking up at him with some distant, thoughtful, obscure emotion on his face. Then he does the only thing he can do when he can't find the words - he starts making cultural references to get his point across. The only point he can make, and it sounds a lot like he's singsonging along to Cheap Trick: "I want you to want me--"
That flustered splash of red is a delight to see. It is not so much that John is good at reading people (though he is), but Harry is such an open book, practically broadcasting his trepidation and worry from every shift of his long frame, the way he averts his gaze, and the darkening flush over his skin. Perfect is not easy to hear, it seems.
And when Harry starts singing at him, it's just a confirmation of his discomfort. He doesn't have a bad voice, not at all, (though he'd do much better with something in a lower register). But it's distraction. It's a feint, from a man who is used to such tactics, because anyone who thought Harry Dresden couldn't play strategy on the fly was missing the point of most of his antics. Pushing for reaction, pushing for specific reactions, it's how he operates.
There is a rule in combat: find what your enemy wants, then do the opposite. Harry is not an enemy by any means but some of the principle still rings true. This is John's cue to roll his eyes or do something to shut the man up.
No such luck. John just smiles and thinks perfect again as he stretches up and reaches until he can trace the pale, soft skin of his underarms up to the wrist. His mouth finds that same stretch of skin, so vulnerable and under-exposed to sunlight and other elements. His mouth leaves faint marks along that expanse of skin as his hands take measure: Dresden's long limbs, the compact but strong muscles, the freckles that are sprayed out over his shoulders and upper arms like a painter flicked a brush at him.
Like this, Harry's bent up under him, and he won't keep him like this long, but having him all in reach for the moment lets him show so appreciation with grasping hands. Eventually one catches on the sticky, stained cut of Harry's hip and uses that purchase to shift them into a extravagantly dirty grind, a rhythmic circling of their hips together, cocks pressed tight between. When John speaks, its around his faint panting: "Believe me," he says in reply to Harry's musical attempt to dodge the question, "I do."
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2012-12-16 07:16 am (UTC)When Harry sits up to watch, John lifts up himself, kneeling in against Harry until they're flush and then just tipping himself forward. Their hips cup together, the curve of Harry's ass on John's legs, lifting him just slightly and pressing him down onto his shoulders. Holding himself up with one hand, John runs a finger over Harry's lip, smoothing the teeth marks there. "I'm sorry, were you getting lonely up here?" He asks with rich humor, staring at Harry with a smile in his eyes. "Can't have that."
The bag is barely in his reach, and grabbing it rocks his hips against Harry's. It's impossible not to feel every tiny movement in extravagant detail, from the thrum of Harry's pulse to the way his cock twitches. Maybe John notices and takes his time settling in, shifting around. Hello there.
A cool raspberry is dragged over Harry's bitten lower lip, meant to soothe and to entice. The red it leaves is painted imperfectly, dripping down the corner of Harry's mouth, but John is quick to clean up his mess; a quick swipe of his tongue collects the stray drops before he sucks the juice off Harry's mouth.
He pops the berry into his mouth, carefully watching for Harry's reaction.
no subject
Date: 2012-12-21 06:35 am (UTC)Afterwards, he has to unwind. Inch by gradual inch, he loosens the muscles in his legs and lets them each down in turn. One, then the other; tucking them back alongside John's hips. He does so with purpose, concentrating on proving to the part of him that must have decided you've got traction now get the fuck out of this that he was okay. He doesn't liquefy when John's finger makes a pass over his mouth, but it does encourage him to settle and brings him right back down.
"Don't flatter yourself," Harry laughs. He'd like to reciprocate (he'd like to touch, to flatten the palm of his hand against John's stomach when he moves just to feel his muscle shift under skin, or get a hand on his back and feel him flex, or grab his biceps when he leans over and cages him with his body), but if he lets go of the bed... well, he doesn't know which direction he'll go. So he clings to the sheets and digs his fingers into the bed and watches. Harry watches until John paints his mouth, cleans him up and then taunts him with the berry.
With the brief warmth and the stray thoughts of kissing John Marcone senseless, and that's all that it takes, because his legs tighten around the man's waist so help him fold in half and lunge for John's mouth. This time he's sweet with his kisses, and maybe it's because the prize is as much a tender berry as it is the chance to tease another laugh, another noise for fucks sake, from John.
no subject
Date: 2012-12-21 07:36 am (UTC)John eases up, laying separate, soft kisses against Harry's mouth. "You are so perfect like this." His hand slides down Harry's leg, where its wrapped around John's waist. "Just like this," he murmurs like a secret. His hand curls under Harry's back, holding him up just a bit further.
"I could do this all night," he says into Harry's jaw, worrying at the rough curve of it. "Hand feed you and keep you like this," and here he uses that leverage of his hand at Harry's back and crushing them together for a beat before letting go. It's reluctantly that their skin pushes together, a lingering stickiness that John's tongue couldn't entirely clean away.
He lifts his head, looking down at Harry, at the long stretch of his arms. Around John's mouth is red, smeared from when Harry crushed their lips together. "Or you can ask me for whatever you'd like."
no subject
Date: 2013-01-01 04:00 am (UTC)Maybe he just can't get enough of the thought that he's being kissed because someone wants to goddamn kiss him, someone lured him into it because they wanted his mouth just as much as he figured they wanted his which is freaking fantastic, the less he thinks about it and the more he just reacts to John's body and John's voice and his stupid, gorgeous eyes. Wow, getting pretty fixated there, Dresden. Either reign it in or embarrass yourself by writing some goddamn poetry most likely titled Ode To The Color of John Marcone's Eyes. (It's just that he's so used to fighting tooth and nail when he's under someone, because when someone asks you about fighting and so what do you do when someone's got you on your back the answer is a resounding chorus of don't let them get you on your fucking back!) But there he is.
Perfect. There's a word he's never heard before. Especially not when it's attached to his gangly limbs and torn-up face and all his goddamn issues and inhibitions. Harry's face contorts for a moment, real confused and full of all sorts of questions, like for starters: what the hell are you smoking and are the side effects permanent because i could totally use some. He chooses to bypass the words, but the questions are there in the corners of his eyes and in the set of his teeth and the way he turns his head away just a little more because okay, maybe his scrawny bicep will suddenly explain everything. It doesn't. He's not surprised.
"I want..." He doesn't know. He's got his hands so twisted in the sheets he's sure he's practically dragged the pillows into reach, his fingers are hidden in the fabric, the muscles in his neck stand out when a wave of heat rushes through him from toe to face (which is a fabulous shade of red that totally indicates he's as flustered as he is aroused) and he even makes a noise that sounds sort of like a strangled nngh when John's hot and hard against him for a beat. When John invites him to ask for what he wants. Fucking invites him to admit things to him, and all of Harry's words choke him.
He wants a lot of things. He doesn't know if he's able to say them all, because he's yet to untangle them - this one from that one and this one from them all. For a moment, he stills under John, looking up at him with some distant, thoughtful, obscure emotion on his face. Then he does the only thing he can do when he can't find the words - he starts making cultural references to get his point across. The only point he can make, and it sounds a lot like he's singsonging along to Cheap Trick: "I want you to want me--"
no subject
Date: 2013-01-01 05:38 am (UTC)And when Harry starts singing at him, it's just a confirmation of his discomfort. He doesn't have a bad voice, not at all, (though he'd do much better with something in a lower register). But it's distraction. It's a feint, from a man who is used to such tactics, because anyone who thought Harry Dresden couldn't play strategy on the fly was missing the point of most of his antics. Pushing for reaction, pushing for specific reactions, it's how he operates.
There is a rule in combat: find what your enemy wants, then do the opposite. Harry is not an enemy by any means but some of the principle still rings true. This is John's cue to roll his eyes or do something to shut the man up.
No such luck. John just smiles and thinks perfect again as he stretches up and reaches until he can trace the pale, soft skin of his underarms up to the wrist. His mouth finds that same stretch of skin, so vulnerable and under-exposed to sunlight and other elements. His mouth leaves faint marks along that expanse of skin as his hands take measure: Dresden's long limbs, the compact but strong muscles, the freckles that are sprayed out over his shoulders and upper arms like a painter flicked a brush at him.
Like this, Harry's bent up under him, and he won't keep him like this long, but having him all in reach for the moment lets him show so appreciation with grasping hands. Eventually one catches on the sticky, stained cut of Harry's hip and uses that purchase to shift them into a extravagantly dirty grind, a rhythmic circling of their hips together, cocks pressed tight between. When John speaks, its around his faint panting: "Believe me," he says in reply to Harry's musical attempt to dodge the question, "I do."